“Well, but how fast do you imagine it is going?”
“About eight knots an hour or thereabouts,” said Mr. Temple, considering. “That would be nine to ten miles. A nautical mile, or knot, you know, is between one and one-sixth and one and one-seventh land miles. But, why, Jack? What have you in mind?”
Jack glanced at “Black George’s” door. It was closed. The other, he knew, lay there helpless to move, under care of a man whom they had not yet seen. So much had been gathered from Matt Murphy. The latter had disappeared above deck. Leaning closer, Jack lowered his voice. Instinctively, to hear him better, all put their heads together.
“It was midnight when we came aboard,” said Jack. “It is ten in the morning now. That means we have been at sea ten hours. We have gone one hundred miles, if you are correct about our speed. Now we are heading south. Our cabins are on the port side and the sun from the east is in our portholes.
“Do you know what?” He leaned closer.
“What?” asked Frank.
“I believe we are heading for the smugglers’ cove. And that’s in the south somewhere.”
The others nodded.
“Well,” continued Jack, “I’ve been thinking this over. San Diego is about six hundred miles south of San Francisco, isn’t it, Mr. Temple?”
“Roughly that. Go on. What have you in mind?”